


vanishing point

by memento_amare



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Art Student Reader, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, Time Travel, time rift, will add more tags and characters as the story goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27894430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memento_amare/pseuds/memento_amare
Summary: a struggling art student and an aspiring engineer, you and akaashi keiji stumble into each other under extraordinary circumstances. two parallel lines meet here in shinjuku station, seventy-five years in the making.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Reader
Kudos: 8





	vanishing point

**Author's Note:**

> you catch up with an old friend. the winds of shinjuku station begin to blow in your first encounter.

**ART, AS YOU LONG KNOW IT TO BE,** is the mover and not the moved, the currents that pull you on to voyages beyond the horizon. you are but its instrument, a sailor subject to the currents and mercy of nature.

igarashi-sensei taps the remote, moving to the next slide.

“this is one of your preparatory exercises for the year-end exhibition. because we’re not about to let you cram your theses,” a collective groan ripples through the class, “we’re chunking your deadlines as follows…”

she goes on, listing other things like the art statement, literature, and other deliverables to provide and submit for approval before the deadline. you tune her out, knowing that these are all in the syllabus anyway. 

listlessly, you fix your gaze at the leaves that blow on the grounds of waseda university. everything is vivid outside: warm fall colors under a cloudless blue sky.

from your pocket, your phone vibrates. you check it under your table discreetly, biting back a grin at the contact name. tilting the screen down again, you tap your pen on the table with renewed vigour, already excited for the end of the day.

-

you seem to have wandered into every sailor’s worst nightmare. all wind has left from your sails, leaving you no choice but to painstakingly row your way through the waters, artwork after artwork.

“just… ugh, you _know_ i’ve been stuck on the longest art block lately,” you grumble, sipping on your capuccino. a slice of raspberry cheesecake sits on the table, halfway eaten through. 

inspiration comes and goes as it pleases, after all: the ever-shifting winds that propel hopeful creators voyaging at sea. 

you miss the days when the wind remained in your sails, when your creative process went beyond a simple obligation to submit before the deadline.

(it’s hard to go from starry-eyed freshman to forlorn senior.)

across you, oikawa tooru hums thoughtfully. 

“what if you go on some kind of wild adventure? find some inspiration and fresh air along the way.” 

“what makes you think i have the money or time to—“

“what if i sneak you to argentina?” he wiggles his eyebrows, sly grin stretching across his features. you scowl.

“no thanks.” waving his fork at you, he tuts disapprovingly. 

“see, this is the problem. you’re not getting out of your comfort zone, y/n-chan.” as though illustrating his point, he lifts the spiced macchiato to his lips— _a celebration of the autumn spirit!_ he had said. (you’re pretty sure he’s just finding an excuse to get the discount.) 

taking a sip, he quickly scrunches his nose. you laugh. 

“comfort zone, huh?”

“you know what i mean,” he pouts, continuing to drink regardless. 

(you do know. oikawa tooru is the living manifestation of pushing one’s limits: and though you hate people giving you advice, this one is something that you can’t refute.)

the muffled chatter goes on, and the smell of brewed coffee feels like a warm embrace from the autumn chill. sighing, you look out the window of the café. 

there’s a sign painted on the glass wall, a mirrored _‘fall sale: 10% off themed drinks!’_ that reads properly when viewed from outside. from here, your reflection fits into the lower circle of the percent symbol—a picture perfect glass cage. 

a tanned hand appears in your vision. “hey, try it. after a while, it’s actually pretty good.” he pushes his cup towards you. 

“ _the_ oikawa tooru sharing his drink? make sure your fangirls aren’t looking.” it’s an old joke, one from four years ago in miyagi, from simpler times. _god_ you miss those. ignoring his indignant squawk, you lift the cup, taking a sip. 

the cinnamon somehow makes you calm yet awake at the same time, its subtle spice bringing out the bittersweetness of the coffee. as you swallow, the liquid warms your throat and insides.

_yeah, it’s really not that bad._

-

the walk to goodbye is sparsed with questions of _‘what time’s your bus to haneda?’_ and _‘so what’s makki up to now?’_. the years apart dissolve, and you sprinkle the last moments of your reunion with laughter and playful teasing, not ready for your time to end. 

(shinjuku is but a resting place, a temporary stop for travellers to rest before moving on. you know this. oikawa tooru is a galleon parting through the glimmering seas; a captain in every sense of the word. you _know_ this.

so you bite back your complaints, and let him journey on.)

“you okay from here?” oikawa drops you off at waseda station, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. though his posture is nonchalant, there’s a hint of sadness in his eyes.

“yeah. thanks, ‘ru.” you raise yourself up and wrap your arms around your childhood friend, squeezing tightly. overcome with a wave of emotion, you bury your nose into the crook of his neck. “i’m gonna miss you.” 

his hands encircle your waist, the rumble of his quiet laugh reverberating through your body. “don’t go missing me too much, now.” his voice is soft with fondness.

“you and hajime are such _assholes_ , i hope you both know that.” pulling away, you regard him searchingly, memorizing his features for until the next time he decides to visit. his shoulders are broader now, with a sharper jawline and slightly shorter hair, but there’s still the same flippant confidence and simmering hunger so characteristic of oikawa tooru. you bite your lip, willing the tears back.

you begin to walk, body still turned to face him. “stay safe on your flight!” he waves at you with a sincere smile and an _‘i will!’_ , the sunlight glinting in his hair. his figure grows ever smaller.

eventually you turn away in earnest, moving through the turnstile with misty eyes.

-

the bliss of the few hours reconnecting with oikawa is slowly dissipating, and you’re back in your normal state of listlessness.

the notions of an adventure or some seasonal dalliance seems unnecessarily tedious, and you hate how perceptive he is, even after two years of not meeting: _see, this is the problem. you’re not getting out of your comfort zone._

the train ride passes in a blur, tokyo’s buildings and colorful signages zipping past your distracted daze. 

(for a wild moment, you find yourself wondering what would have happened if you accepted oikawa’s offer—assuming he had been serious.)

 _“shinjuku station. shinjuku station.”_ the monotone female voice echoes across the car and you stand, shouldering your bag. you follow the flow of people exiting the car, stopping for a moment by one of the pillars just to check on your phone for any new messages from oikawa. your phone lockscreen reads _4:39pm_.

then it happens.

around you, a strong wind begins to blow out of nowhere. you pocket your phone, bringing a hand to your face, wincing at the wind biting at your cheeks. 

no one else seems to be affected. you reach a hand out only for it to pass _through_ the person in front of you. 

you shriek, stumbling backward. still, people go on. your heartbeat thunders in your ears, breath coming out in short, panicked puffs. another woman passes through your figure, mindlessly talking on her phone. she seems almost faded, like a translucent mirage caught in a haze of white.

everything steadily grows lighter and lighter the harder the wind blows. it’s almost like becoming a ghost, except instead of you fading, everything _else_ is. 

the crowd begins to be sparsed by other figures: the women wear long sleeved dressing cinched at the waist, the men are clad tight suits. some are even wearing _kimono_ and _hakama_. yet they also appear to be ghostly mirages. a woman in a kimono passes through you and you choke, patting your body just to make sure. 

as if things couldn’t get any weirder, the image of shinjuku station flickers before your eyes. modern structure seems to layer over steel pillars and frames, and the chairs and signages overhead fade in and out of existence. the wind begins to ease, but the muted translucence does not. the wind seems to only grow in force, and you screw your eyes shut from the sheer strength of it.

suddenly, everything is still. 

-

when you lift your head again, there are no people left around you. there’s no sound save for a hum that seems to penetrate deep into your bones.

cautiously, you take a step, then another. there is no sound save for your quiet breaths. something prods against your foot. 

looking down, you find a black cap: it’s not faded like everything else is, and it seems to have been blown here from somewhere by the wind. it seems like yet another relic of a bygone decade; caps like these are quite rare, and you distantly recall seeing these on the heads of the sepia-colored photographs of your grandfather.

picking it up, you dust it off and adjust the straps of your bag. perhaps there is someone here. everyone is gone—only this strange faded white version of shinjuku station remains. 

you move in the opposite direction of earlier’s wind, cap in hand. looking around, you realize the flickering hasn’t ceased; it’s only much less noticeable. it seems to be an image from a decades ago, one that you can’t quite place.

soon enough, you find the cap’s owner: a boy in a black _gakuran_ with his face turned away from you. he’s tall, with a head of messy raven hair swept by the wind. 

hesitantly, you call, “is this yours?” his looks up, startled, and your breath hitches.

_he’s beautiful._

it’s not exactly the word you’d use to describe a guy, but he is: his face is delicately structured, jawline sharp yet somehow soft, with high cheekbones and a tapered nose. his lips are parted, eyebrows softly raised as his eyes hold yours in a breathless gaze. 

he straightens, feet beginning to walk towards you. snapping out of your daze, you force your feet to move too.

a piercing whistle breaks the dead silence, and you both stop in your tracks. 

it’s a steam train, all metal and coal-powered machine. he stops, distracted for a moment, gaze turning away from you as it whizzes by, and you’re utterly taken by the sight before you. 

in this hazy, unknown shinjuku station, he is its single vivid presence. the wind from the train blows his hair and ruffles the fabric of his _gakuran_. his eyes hold a faraway, forlorn gaze.

(something in you shifts. a different wind blows: subtle, gentle, but there. your boat rocks forward, the sail catching on the breeze for the first time in what feels like years.

you are rooted to the ground before him, but you are also at sea, and it feels as though you’re finally moving again.)

the train’s cars are empty. the moment it screeches to a stop, another forceful wind begins to blow, more akin to the one that heralded your coming here. the hazy white over everything begins to lift, and slowly, the ghostly mirages of people return.

you run to him, hand outstretched, holding his cap. his strides begin to quicken as well, but you struggle against the forceful blow of the wind. your eyes water, and you lift your hand to protect them, closing your eyes and continuing to run blindly forward.

the wind disappears. you stumble, forward momentum no longer offset by any resistance. the ground is more than happy to receive you.

passersby shoot concerned glances at your figure, though none stop to help. you try to regain your bearings, bringing a hand up to comb through your now-tangled hair. something soft touches your hair and you stop, noticing the cap still clutched in your right hand. 

a train approaches. the clock overhead ticks to _4:40pm,_ not a second out of place. you realize where you are. or to be more precise, where you’ve returned to.

_“train on yamanote-sen approaching. please stand behind the yellow line.”_


End file.
